“Evie? We can hear your decision then, can’t we?”
“Yes,” she said, dazed. Oh God. She certainly hoped so.
CHAPTER 2
London, England
Imagine that, Joseph, the Sydney Opera House, one of the world’s most recognizable buildings and yet the man who designed it has never actually seen it in the flesh, so to speak. He was a Danish architect, if memory serves me right. Won an international competition in the 1950s to come up with a design. Well, he won, no surprise there, it’s a wonderful building, but then there was all sorts of bother, years of delays, you see, the costs blew out. Well, we know that scenario ourselves of course, but we’re talking in the millions here…”
As his accountant kept talking, Joseph Wheeler began to regret mentioning that he was going to a conference in Sydney. He’d barely named the city before Maurice had launched into a history lecture. In the past five minutes Joseph had heard enough to set up his own tourist-guide business.
Maurice was the human equivalent of an Internet search engine, Joseph decided. You just needed to give him a key word and off he’d go. Sometimes it was fascinating. But not today, not when there was this pile of paperwork in front of him. Joseph looked down at it. On top was the contract offer from the Canadian company. Maurice had checked through all the financial details. All it needed now was one more read-through and Joseph’s final signature. All he needed was the time to do it.
What had the head lecturer at his university said when he recommended Joseph hire Maurice as his accountant? “He can be a bit of a chatterbox, but if he’s just working as a consultant you’ll only see him occasionally. And he is fully qualified. Very experienced. It’ll leave you free to get on with your designs.”
A bit of a chatterbox? Yes, and Bill Gates had just a bit of money. And The Beatles had been just a bit successful.
Joseph tuned back in just as Maurice moved on to another subject.
“Do you know, the Sydney Harbour Bridge set quite a few records when it was first constructed, as one of the world’s first single-span bridges. There’s actually rather an amusing story attached to the opening ceremony. You see, there it was, all planned, pomp and ceremony, when the whole event was hijacked…”
Joseph didn’t have time to hear this today. Perhaps he could ask Maurice to speak into a tape recorder and he could listen to it later. He stood up. “Sorry, Maurice, but I’ll have to stop you there. I’ve a room full of work to get through before I go.” He walked over to his office door and opened it, standing expectantly.
Maurice didn’t seem to mind in the least. He pulled himself out of the chair with a groan. “In a bit of a rush today myself, actually, Joseph. That’s the drawback of being a consultant such as me, lots of different clients. Like a family of children, baby birds, all calling to be fed, you lot are.”
Joseph kept moving, drawing Maurice toward the lift. His PA Rosemary looked up from her desk as they walked past. “Good-bye, Maurice. Will I see you in two weeks as usual, even while Joseph’s away? I’ll need your help to prepare for the auditor.”
“Of course, Rosemary, of course. And you’ll have some more of those lovely biscuits for me, I hope.”
“Oh, indeed, Maurice. If I have to stay up all night to bake them myself.”
He finally left, the lift making a satisfying ding as it carried him away.
Joseph waited a minute to be absolutely sure he’d gone, then turned to Rosemary. “I don’t suppose it’s too late for me to do an accounting course?”
She smiled, pleased to see a glint of humor in his eyes. The first one in days. “Would a coffee help?”
“More than you know. I’ll be back in a moment. I just need to have a word with one of the designers.”
Rosemary carried the coffee and a bulging folder of paperwork into Joseph’s glass-walled office and settled herself in one of the comfortable chairs. Wheeler Design took up a whole floor of this converted Hoxton warehouse these days. The computers in the middle of the open-plan room were all in operation, the designers working on the latest updates to Joseph’s creations. The office itself was furnished with his prototypes—stylish chairs and sofas, desks, computer keyboards, all ergonomically sound. His most recent and successful design, the innovative backpack, was on display just beside the reception desk.
Rosemary took a sip of coffee and opened up the folder. They had a lot to get through this morning. They’d had a lot to get through every morning lately. She’d been working for Joseph for nearly three years now and it had never been busier. The fact that he was going to Australia for two weeks was adding to the pressure. She took out the glossy conference program that had just arrived from the Sydney conference organizers. They were certainly giving Joseph star billing. She skim-read the biography:
London-based Joseph Wheeler has a well-deserved reputation for excellence and innovation in the field of industrial and ergonomic design in the U.K. Three years of research with physiotherapists led to his groundbreaking backpack design which features a weight carrying system that…
Good, it was all there and up-to-date. It was just a shame the photo of Joseph in the program was two years old—he hadn’t had the time to get a new one taken. She looked over at the real thing, several meters away. Joseph was leaning down beside one of the designers, pointing out a detail on the computer screen, listening as the young woman explained a problem she was having with the new chair design. He didn’t look that different these days, Rosemary supposed. The only real difference was in the expression. In the photo he looked full of life, eyes alight, mouth on the verge of smiling. He hadn’t looked like that in real life for months.
As she watched he ran his fingers through his dark hair, leaving a tuft standing up. He did this often, especially when he was getting stressed. She could tell his anxiety levels by the number of tufts standing up. So far, today had been a three-tuft day. Medium stress. Maurice’s visit could probably account for two of those—his fortnightly visits were a waterfall of financial details, royalty statements, contracts and bank accounts. Joseph was working far too hard, Rosemary thought, and he didn’t seem to be reveling in it as much as he used to. He seemed distracted. Preoccupied.
She doubted that anyone else in the office would have noticed. Certainly his outward appearance hadn’t changed at all. He was as stylish as ever. Though he still wore far too much black for Rosemary’s taste. Just like her son. What was it with these young men? Didn’t they believe in colors?
She’d often heard the young designers in his company—the women and the men—talk breathlessly about Joseph’s appearance. “But he’s not conventionally handsome, is he?” they’d ask each other. “No, he’s interesting-looking. And those come-to-bed eyes of his…”
Rosemary had rolled her own eyes at that. Not so much come-to-bed as haven’t-been-to-bed-enough eyes, she thought.
“Sorry for keeping you, Rosemary.”
She looked up as Joseph walked in and took a seat at his desk. “Is everything on track out there?” she asked as she poured his coffee.
“We’re nearly there with the chair design. But if we get the contract for the airline seats I’m going to have to take on at least two more designers. Could you please draft up an ad, just in case?”
Rosemary made a note. “I heard back from the conference people in Sydney this morning, by the way. They’ve changed your flight booking as requested. They were astonished, I have to say. First time in living memory one of their keynote speakers has asked to be downgraded to economy class on an international flight, they said.”
She’d started to worry for Joseph’s sanity herself when he’d suggested it. “You want to fly to Australia economy class?” Are you mad? she hadn’t said aloud.
Joseph had been decisive. “It’s an ideal opportunity. If I’m going to be designing new long-haul airline seats, I’ll need that firsthand experience.”
“Can’t you just walk through economy class on the way to your business-class seat?” she’
d dared to ask.
He’d smiled at that. But he hadn’t changed his mind.
Joseph flicked through the conference program. He’d be giving the keynote address and then running several workshops. He wondered when he was going to find the time to write that keynote address. The way his schedule was at the moment, it would be on the flight itself.
“Shall I book a car to take you to the airport?” Rosemary asked, pen poised over her notebook.
“No, thanks anyway. I’m having dinner with my mother that night and she’s offered to drive me out to Heathrow afterward.”
Rosemary noted that. “And how is Kate, Joseph?”
Joseph looked up from the letters he was studying and smiled briefly. “She’s much better, Rosemary, thanks.”
“Oh, that’s good.” She didn’t inquire any more about his mother’s cancer scare. Joseph kept himself to himself, pretty much. She’d once dared to ask him how he was when she’d realized he and his girlfriend Tessa had broken up. It was as if a shutter had come down over his face.
“Now, I need your signature on these,” she said, getting back to business and handing over a pile of paperwork. “And your answers to a few queries. There’s a request from that new design magazine to do a profile on you, full-page photo, interview, you know the sort of thing.”
“No thanks,” Joseph said.
No surprise there, Rosemary thought. Joseph hated doing media interviews. The journalist would be disappointed, though. She’d sounded very keen indeed to follow Joseph around for a few days.
“Two requests from design students, asking about the possibility of work experience here.”
“That’s fine. A week each, once I get back from Australia.”
Rosemary nodded. “Next item. The website designer rang to say he’s finished the updates to your site. I saw it this morning, it looks good. Lots of information, more photos. I think you’ll be pleased.”
Joseph pressed a few keys on the computer beside him. There was a flash of color on the screen then the Wheeler Design website came up. He quickly scrolled through, clicking from page to page. “Great stuff. I’ll call him later and tell him.”
“I’ve had an e-mail from the Canadian company, too. Wondering if you’ve made a decision about their offer as yet.”
Joseph glanced at the paperwork again. “I’ll look at it again today, I hope. Can you please put them off for another few days? In fact, until I get back from Australia.”
“Of course.”
“Thanks, Rosemary. And are you sure you’ve enough time to help the auditor while I’m away? We can get a couple of temps in if your workload is too much.”
She smiled at him. Her last boss wouldn’t have noticed if she’d been buried under her desk in paperwork. “I should be fine, Joseph, thank you. That’s all for the moment. I’ll shut the door behind me, shall I?”
He nodded. “Thanks.”
After she’d gone he stood up, coffee cup in hand, and walked over to the big window. The rain was pelting against the glass, obscuring the view of the Hoxton shops and bars two floors down. He felt like he was in a carwash.
The paperwork on his desk was like a siren calling him over. He resisted it for a while longer, looking around the office instead. He’d designed it himself when he’d first moved into the old warehouse five years before. Wheeler Design shared the building with ten other companies, everything from graphic designers to freelance journalists. The first couple of years had been great, like a social and work co-operative. But these days he hardly had the time to talk to any of the others, let alone socialize.
“You’re on the high road to success now, Joseph,” Maurice had said that morning as he handed over the hundred-page document outlining the conditions and patent situation if Joseph were to take the job with the Canadian luggage company. They’d invited him to base himself in Toronto for six months to work with their team on a new version of his backpack. The work would be long and hard, but the money and prestige would more than compensate.
This was the high road to success? It was filled with potholes then, he thought. Exhaustion. Headaches. Meetings, contracts, and paperwork. It was ironic, really. He was such a successful designer he didn’t get time to actually design anymore.
Joseph ran his fingers through his hair. What a day. And what a day yesterday had been. And the weeks and months before that. He felt more like sixty-four years old than the thirty-four he was. What had happened to his life? He was feeling more and more like he was barely clinging on. All this paperwork and all these details were hurtling past him and he was getting just a glimpse as they rushed by.
He had to concentrate. If this headache would go away, he could. He went back to his desk and started reading the tiny print of the Canadian contract again.
This document confirms the details of the proposed contract agreement between Joseph Wheeler of Wheeler Design of Hoxton, London, hereafter known as the Consultant and…
It was no good. He wasn’t taking it in. He looked out the window again. Why was he putting it off? This was what all that hard work had been about, wasn’t it? Fine-tuning his designs. Doing all the research. Making all the prototypes. So he’d get approaches like this?
Three years ago an offer like this one would have consumed him. Thrilled him. Sent his blood pumping.
But now? Today? He just felt like picking up the contract and throwing it straight in the bin.
CHAPTER 3
Oh, Evie, that looks gorgeous.”
Eva turned and smiled at her young cousin. “Thanks, Meg.” She was very pleased with the latest window display herself. She’d been working on it all afternoon, carefully arranging a balancing act of shiny purple aubergines, bright red chilies, and plump heads of garlic, surrounded by long, elegant bottles of olive oil.
It was like a still-life painting, she decided. But it just needed a few more bits and pieces. Some preserved pears, perhaps, all golden and round in their jars. The handmade chocolates? Or a selection of the freshly baked biscuits in their little cellophane-wrapped bundles?
Meg was inspecting the display closely. “Could I try to do one of these while you’re away, Eva? They look so artistic, don’t they? I don’t know where you get your ideas from at all.”
“Those three years I spent at art school, maybe,” Eva said mildly.
“Oh, that’s right, I forgot about those. I only ever think of you as a shop assistant, I suppose.”
Eva blinked. Perhaps a person’s tact gene only kicked in at the age of nineteen, she thought. Or perhaps Meg had missed out on hers altogether.
Meg was oblivious in any case. “It’s such great fun here, Evie. Not like work at all. Did I tell you a lady came in yesterday and asked me for quail’s eggs, can you believe it? What size would they be, do you think? God, quails are tiny enough themselves, their eggs would be like peas, wouldn’t they?” Meg gave a merry laugh.
“Then another lady came in and asked did we serve hot soup. She said she was freezing and walking past, smelled the bread and thought, mmm, imagine a nice hunk of that bread and a big bowl of freshly made soup, not that packet stuff most of the pubs sell.” Meg took a deep breath, then kept going. “I told her that, sorry, we didn’t serve soup but I’d certainly talk to you and Ambrose about it. Bernadette and Maura, my teachers at Ardmahon House, always said you should never dismiss a customer’s request out of hand. They said it’s better to thank them for the idea and say you’d see what you could do. That way they feel like you really care about them as customers. Could we do that, do you think, Eva?”
Eva was trying to keep up. “Do what, Meg, sorry?”
“Serve hot soup.”
“Where?”
“In the shop.”
“Where could we serve it?”
“Oh, I mean to take away, in the first instance. Unless we put a few tables and chairs in the storeroom.” Meg laughed. “That’d be cozy, wouldn’t it? ‘Yes sir, that table there is free, just next to those tins of tomatoes.�
�”
Eva opened her mouth to answer, then shut it as Meg started talking again. “And I just can’t wait to start serving behind the counter. And helping Ambrose in the storeroom, too.”
“You’re not still nervous of him, I hope?” Eva finally got a word in, keeping her voice low. “His bark really is much worse than his bite.”
Meg whispered, “I know. I think we just got off to a bad start with my tongue stud.”
“I can’t imagine why. I thought it was absolutely gorgeous.”
Meg poked out her now plain tongue. Ambrose had taken one look at the silver stud the day before and grimaced. “Isn’t that remarkable? Now, take it out, please, before you scare our customers and put them off their food.”
“I don’t mind really,” Meg whispered. “I told him I’m happy to look just as ordinary as you while I’m working here.”
Ordinary? Every hackle on Eva’s body rose again before she mentally pushed them all down. She looked at her reflection in the glass door opposite. Long straight black hair tied back in a plait. White shirt. Simple silver jewelry. Average height. Average build—well, definitely not thin, anyway. All right, she was hardly Claudia Schiffer, but ordinary?
The child is only nineteen, she reminded herself. Twelve years younger than you. She knows not what she says. She bit back what she wanted to say: “I’ll have you know, when I was your age, et cetera, et cetera. Do you realize I was wearing earrings and eye makeup before you could even walk, et cetera, et cetera.”
The shop telephone started to ring. “That’s Dermot for you, Evie,” Ambrose called out from the storeroom.
Eva walked over and picked up the phone behind the counter. “Hi, Dermot.” There was no answer, just a lot of noise in the background, as though her boyfriend were in a bar. The property company he worked for was just off Grafton Street, surrounded by pubs, so perhaps that was exactly where he was.
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